The Naked Prince

By Sally MacKenzie

Originally published in Invitation to Sin

USA Today bestselling author Sally MacKenzie delights again with this perfect confection of romance, intrigue, sexiness and humor. . .

An Invitation To Sin

Josephine Atworthy is shocked by the goings-on at her rich neighbor's house party. Quite shocked. But her demure charm beguiles a mysterious nobleman, who begs a kiss—then another. And in a twinkling, they may be falling head over heels in love. . .

Praise for the Novels of Sally MacKenzie

"Naked, noble and irresistible!" —Eloisa James

"The romance equivalent of chocolate cake. . .every page is an irresistible delight!" —Lisa Kleypas

"A perfect night's read." —RT Book Reviews

Originally published in Invitation to Sin38,500 Words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zebra Books
• Release date: Dec 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781420133981

Book preview

Page

Chapter 1

"Papa, what the hell is this?"

Miss Jo Atworthy threw the package she was carrying at her father’s desk; he dove to catch it before it could hit the battered mahogany surface.

Careful! That’s a very rare collection of Catullus’s poems to Lesbia, Jo.

Oh, good Lord. Jo clenched her teeth and counted to ten. Another expensive book, and of dirty poetry, no less. How many times did she have to tell Papa they couldn’t afford such extravagances?

She watched him reverently unwrap the book and stroke its leather cover. A thousand times would make no difference. He never heard things he didn’t want to hear.

She blew out a short, sharp breath. There was nothing to be done. She’d have to tell Mr. Windley she’d take his youngest little hellion on as a Latin student. She untied her bonnet and jerked it off her head. But she would not take Mr. Windley on as well, no matter how clearly he hinted he’d be delighted to hire her permanently—via a wedding ring—to teach his spawn and tend his hearth and maybe even produce a new idiot Windley or two.

Yet the damnable truth was her marriage would solve all their financial difficulties.

She flung her bonnet on the overstuffed chair. Knocking some sense of economy into Papa’s thick skull would work as well. He was studying the pages of his newest purchase now, smiling with unadulterated joy and a touch of awe.

"Papa, you must stop buying these books. We simply don’t have the funds to pay for them."

He didn’t even bother to glance up. Now, Jo, I’m sure we can—

"We cannot." She shoved her hands in her pockets to keep from strangling him, and her fingers slid over the letter she’d got when she’d picked up the post. A small thrill shot through her. She’d been waiting for this letter, looking for it each day for the last week. When she’d finally seen it, her address written in the familiar black scrawl, she’d wanted to snatch it up and take it to her room, to curl up in her favorite chair and read it in privacy—but Papa’s blasted package had caused all thought of her letter to fly out of her head.

She ran her finger over the paper. Had her London prince found her comments on Virgil amusing? She’d been on tenterhooks waiting for his reaction. Had he—

She snatched her hands back out of her pockets. She was as harebrained as Papa. Worse. Papa’s books were real; she’d built her prince from air. She’d sent her first letter off to him via his publisher, signing only her initials to hide the fact she was a female. She knew he’d never answer, but when he had . . .

She repressed the shiver of excitement she still felt at the thought. Missive by missive, sentence by sentence, word by precious word over the last year, she’d created a figure of male perfection—handsome, honorable, strong, brilliant, kind, courageous.

She was a fool. She knew nothing about him, not even his name, for heaven’s sake. No matter how witty or intelligent his letters, a man who wrote articles as A Gentleman in The Classical Gazette and signed his letters K was probably some ancient don.

She should be inquiring after his gout, not imagining him riding up on a white horse to save her from her boring life. She frowned at her father. "Perhaps you’d like to tutor the Windley—"

She heard a sudden banging.

I say, isn’t that someone at the door? Papa clutched his precious Catullus to his chest and looked over her shoulder, relief evident in his face.

She was not going to let him escape. Every time she tried to get him to face their dire financial situation, he found a way to dodge the conversation. Not this time. Papa, I—

The banging got louder.

There? Don’t you hear it? Someone is knocking at the door.

I don’t— Damn, their caller was not going to give up; the fellow risked pounding a hole in the wood. She treated her father to her best glare. We’ll resume this conversation as soon as I find out who that is.

Papa looked so damnably innocent. I’ll come with you.

Don’t think to slip past me and escape. We are going to have this talk.

Jo, you wound me. Papa tried to look wounded but failed. Go see who is knocking.

"I am." She stalked to the door and threw it open. A haughty-looking footman dressed in Baron Greyham’s black and gray livery stood on the threshold, his hand raised to knock again.

He looked her up and down and then sniffed, clearly not approving of what he saw.

She clenched her fists to keep from smoothing her hair or skirt. Yes?

I have an invitation for Miss Josephine Atworthy from his lordship, Baron Greyham. If the man tilted his nose any farther into the air, he’d fall over backward.

I am Miss Atworthy.

The footman actually cringed.

She tilted her nose in the air. She might not look like the baron’s cousin—well, she probably did look like his poor relation. Her dress was showing its age a bit, but, damn it, it was still serviceable. She had no time—or money—to follow the silly vagrancies of fashion.

He addressed a spot above her head. Lord Greyham sends his regards, Miss Atworthy, and requests the pleasure of your company at a gathering he is hosting in honor of St. Valentine’s Day. He offered her a sheet of vellum.

She stared at it as if it were a snake. The Bad Baron was inviting her to one of his scandalous gatherings? There must be some mistake.

The footman looked as if he thought so, too, but restrained himself with some effort from saying so. If you are indeed Miss Atworthy, there is no mistake.

He offered her the paper again. She considered rejecting it again, but that seemed rather silly—and she’d admit she was curious. She took it.

Of course she’s Miss Atworthy, Papa said. Who else would she be—Helen of Troy?

The footman was not a classics scholar. Lord Greyham didn’t mention a Miss Troy.

Jo perused the invitation. Lady Greyham writes that one of their female guests came down with a putrid throat at the last minute; they need me to make up their numbers.

I see. Papa, trying unsuccessfully to hide a grin, shrugged. Then you’d best go pack your things.

Jo crumpled the note. I’m not going. What are you thinking?

Papa patted her arm. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine on my own.

She was going to grind her teeth to dust. I’ve no doubt you’ll be as merry as a grig, but you know I can’t attend one of Lord Greyham’s parties. My reputation would never survive it.

Papa laughed. Balderdash. Everyone knows you’re far too full of starch to participate in anything even remotely improper.

She was not flattered. Was she really considered so priggish? Would even her prince think her so?

Damn it, she must cure herself of this silly girlish fantasy. She tried to picture K as hunchbacked, balding, and decrepit.

And you’re a bit long in the tooth to be concerned with gossip.

Oh! Insult added to injury. I am still unmarried; I must concern myself with gossip.

Papa smiled at the footman. Will you excuse us for a moment?

Of course, sir. I’ll—

Papa shut the door in the footman’s face.

Papa!

He took her arm and led her a few steps from the door. Jo, think. This is quite the opportunity. It’s not every day you get such an invitation.

She jerked her arm free. An invitation to sin!

Papa looked heavenward as if requesting divine intervention and then back at her. A little sin would do you good.

Papa!

Dear God, Jo, I was only funning. He frowned. Well, mostly funning. The truth is you are twenty-eight years old. You’re not getting any younger.

I’m well aware of my age.

Oh, don’t poker up. He sighed. I hate to say it, my dear, but you do have a reputation for being . . . He waved his hand, as if that told her anything.

For being what?

A bit of a prude. He took her hand in his. Men—except perhaps that idiot Windley—see you more as a Latin tutor, ready to smack them at the least mistake, than a woman.

She jerked her hand back. That’s ridiculous. It might be true that the few moderately eligible gentlemen in the neighborhood had stopped asking her to stand up with them and edged out of any conversational group she joined, but that just saved her from having to stifle her yawns as they droned on about their horses and dogs.

Frankly you’re turning into a shrew.

I’m trying to save us from the poorhouse. If you’d only exercise a little self-restraint—

Jo, men don’t like to be berated constantly. If you don’t take care, even Windley won’t have you.

If only she hadn’t sold the hideous bust of Virgil that had graced the table by the door, she could bash him over the head with it. I’d rather sell myself on the streets than marry that hideous oaf.

Well, if you’re considering that line of work, I don’t see how you can take issue with attending Greyham’s house party. At least he won’t have any Paphians there. Papa paused. That is, I don’t think he will.

Clearly, Papa’s obsession with erotic classical poetry had addled his brain. "I cannot